UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


BRUSHWOOD. 


BY 

T.   BUCHANAN    READ. 


ILLUSTRATED 

FROM    DESIGNS    BY   FREDERICK   DIELMAN. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   &   CO. 

LONDON:    16    SOUTHAMPTON    ST.,    STRAND 


COPYRIGHT, 

1881. 
BY  J.  B.  LIPPIMCOTT  &   Co. 


PS 


1  BRUSHWOOD. 


/^\N  a  weary  slope  of  Apennine, 

At  sober  dusk  of  day's  decline,    % 
Out  of  the  solemn  solitude 
Of  Vallombrosa's  antique  wood, 
A  withered  woman,  tanned  and 
Bearing  her  bundled  brushwood  went,  ^ 
Poising  it  on  her  palsied  head, 
As  if  in  penance  for  prayers  unsaid. 


~1    TER  dull  cheeks  channelled  were  with  tears, 

Shed  in  the  storms  of  eighty  years; 
Her  wild  hair  fell  in  gusty  flow, 
White  as  the  foamy  brook  below : 
Still  toiled  she  with  her  load  alone, 
With  feeble  feet  but  steadfast  will, 
To  gain  her  little  home,  that  shone 
Like  a  dreary  lantern  on  the  hill. 


rriHE  mountain  child,  no  toil  could  tame, 

With  lighter  load  beside  her  came,    "^ 
Spake    kindly,    but    its 

accents  fond 
Were  lost, — soon  lost  on 

the  heights  beyond. 

There  came  the  maid  in 

her  glowing  dress, 
The  wild-eyed  witch  of 

the  wilderness, 


Her  brush-load  shadowing  her  face, 
Her  upright  figure  full  of  grace, 
Like     those     tall     pines 

whose  only  boughs 
Are  gathered  round  their 

dusky  brows  :— 
Singing,  she  waved  her 

hand,  "  Good-night,"  2 
And  round  the  mountain 

passed  from  sight. 


Her  brush-load  shadowing  her  face, 
Her  upright  figure  full  of  grace, 
Like     those     tall     pines 

whose  only  boughs 
Are  gathered  round  their 

dusky  brows  :— 
Singing,  she  waved  her 

hand,  "  Good-night,"  -g 
And  round  the  mountain 

passed  from  sight. 


climbed  the  laborers  from  their  toil, 
Brown  as  their  own  Italian  soil; 
Like  Satyrs,  some  in  goatskin  suits, — 
Some  bearing  home  the  scanty  fruits 
Of  harvest  work, — the  swinging  flasks 
Of  oil  or  wine,  or  little  casks, 
Under  which  the  dull  mule  went 
Cheered  with  its  bell,  and  the  echoes  sent 
From  others  on  the  higher  height, 
Saying  to  the  vale,  "  Good-night," — 
"Good-night;" — and  still  the  withered  dame 
Slowly  staggered  on  the  same. 


TTERE,  astride  of  his 
braying  beast, 

I    A    brown    monk    came, 

1 

and  then  a  priest; 
Each  telling  to  the  shadowy  air, 
Perchance,  his  "Ave  Maria"  prayer; 
For  the  sky  was  full  of  vesper  showers, 
Shook  from  the  many  convent  towers, 
Which  fell  into  the  woman's  brain 
Like  dew  upon  an  arid  plain. 


These   pious   men  be 
side  her  rode, — - 
She  crossed  herself  be 
neath  her  load, 
best  she  could, — and 

so  "  Good-night," 
And   they   rode    up 
ward  out  of 

sight. 

r 
3>  - 

~|    TOW  far,  how  very  far  it  seemed, 

To  where  that  starry  taper  gleamed, 
Placed  by  her  grandchild  on  the  sill 
Of  the  cottage  window  on  the  hill ! 


Many  a  parent  heart  before, 

Laden  till  it  could  bear  no  more, 

Has  seen  a  heavenward  light  that  smiled, 

And  knew  it  placed  there  by  a  child  ;— 

A  long-gone  child,  whose  anxious  face 

Gazed  toward  them  down  the  deeps  of  space, 


Longing  for  the  loved  to  come 


To  the  quiet  of  that  home. 


OTEEPER  and  rougher  grew  the  road, 
Harder  and  heavier  grew  the  load; 
Her  heart  beat  like  a  weight  of  stone 
Against  her  breast.      A  sigh  and  moan 
Mingled  with  prayer  escaped  her  lips 
Of  sorrow,  o'er  sorrowing  night's  eclipse. 
"  Of  all  who  pass  me  by,"  she  said, 
"  There  is  never  one  to  lend  me  aid ; 
Could  I  but  gain  yon  wayside  shrine, 
There  would  I  rest  this  load  of  mine, 
And  tell  my  sacred  rosary  through, 
And  try  what  patient  prayer  would  do." 


A  GAIN  she  heard  the  toiling  tread 

Of  one  who  climbed  that  way, — and  said, 
"  I  will  be  bold,  though  I  should  see 
A  monk  or  priest,  or  it  should  be 
The  awful  abbot,  at  whose  nod 
The  frighted  people  toil  and  plod: 
I'll  ask  his  aid  to  yonder  place, 
Where  I  may  breathe  a  little  space, 
And  so  regain  my  home."     He  came, 
And,  halting  by  the  ancient  darne, 
Heard  her  brief  story  and  request, 
Which  moved  the  pity  in  his  breast; 
And  so  he  straightway  took  her  load, 
Toiling  beside  her  up  the  road, 


Until,  with  heart  that  overflowed, 

She  begged  him  lay  her  bundled  sticks 

L.  Close  at  the  feet  of 
the  crucifix. 


OO  down  he  set  her 
?„  brushwood  freight 
Against  the  wayside 

cross,  and  straight 
She  bowed  her  palsied 

head  to  greet 
And  kiss  the  sculptured 

Saviour's  feet; 


And  then  and  there  she  told  her  grief, 

In  broken  sentences  and  brief. 

And  now  the  memory  o'er  her  came 

Of  days  blown  out,  like  a  taper  flame, 

Never  to  be  relighted,  when, 

From  many  a  summer  hill  and  glen, 

She  culled  the  loveliest  blooms  to  shine 

About  the  feet  of  this  same  shrine; 

But  now,  where  once  her  flowers  were  gay, 

Naught  but  the  barren  brushwood  lay! 

She  wept  a  little  at  the  thought, 

And  prayers  and  tears  a  quiet  brought, 

Until  anon,  relieved  of  pain, 

She  rose  to  take  her  load  again. 


But  lo  !   the  bundle  of  dead  wood 
Had  burst  to  blossom  !    and  now  stood 
Dawning  upon  her  marvelling  sight, 
Filling  the  air  with  odorous  light! 


nnHEN  spake  her  traveller-friend:   "Dear  Soul, 

Thy  perfect  faith  hath  made  thee  whole  ! 
I  am  the  Burthen-Bearer,  —  I 
"Will  never  pass  the  o'erladen  by. 
My  feet  are  on  the  mountain  steep; 
They  wind  through  valleys  dark  and  deep; 
They  print  the  hot  dust  of  the  plain, 
And  walk  the  billows  of  the  main. 
Wherever  is  a  load  to  bear, 


My  willing  shoulder  still  is  there ! 

Thy  toil  is  done !"     He  took  her  hand, 

And  led  her  through  a  May-time  land; 

"Where  round  her  pathway  seemed  to  wave 

Each  votive  flower  she  ever  gave 

To  make  her  favorite  altar  bright, 

As  if  the  angels,  at  their  blight, 

Had  borne  them  to  the  fields  of  blue, 

"Where,  planted  'mid  eternal  dew, 

They  bloom,  as  witnesses  arrayed 

Of  one  on  earth  who  toiled  and  prayed. 


146436 


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Form  L-9-35wi-8,'2* 


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Brushwood • 


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